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anb 

^fjilantfjroptc  Societies; 


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'VYVr    >"3^>  \'£'H 


HOLLAND 


p  a  CE  B  E  . 


PHOEBE; 


€1jb  Inspital. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  PRIZE,"  "MAURICE  FAVELL,"  "THE  PRIMROSES," 
AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


NEW    YORK: 

GENERAL  PROTESTANT  EPISCOPAL  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  UNION, 

DEPOSITORY  20  JOHN  STREET. 
1851. 


.    > 


PHCEBE 


OR,    THE    HOSPITAL. 


William  Freeman  returned  home  from 
his  work  one  evening  early  in  March,  and 
found  his  wife,  who  had  prepared  every  thing 
for  his  return,  looking  sad,  and  as  if  she  had 
been  crying,  very  different  from  the  fresh, 
brisk,  cheerful  manner  which  he  used  to 
reckon  upon,  when  he  opened  his  cottage- 
door,  with  as  much  certainty  as  the  warm 
fire  and  comfortable  supper. 

fr-      "  What's  the  matter,  wife  ?"  he  began  ;  "  is 

i    Phoebe  worse?" 

9      "  No,    not    worse,    I    hope,"    she    replied, 

^"though  she  has  had  a  sad  day  of  it,  poor 
thing;  but  the  doctor  has  been  here,  and  he 


6  phcebe;    or, 

says  lie  can  do  no  good  with  her  here ;  that 

she  ought  to  go  to  the  hospital  at  N if 

we  want  her  cured,  and  he  says  he'll  get  her 
in  if  we  like ;  but  oh,  "William,  I  can't  let 
her  go.  What  will  a  poor  child  like  that  do 
without  a  mother  to  take  care  of  her?  No, 
I  can  never  let  her  go." 

William  sat  sad  and  thoughtful  for  some 
time ;  at  last  he  said :  "  You  see  she  gets  no 
better ;  every  time  I  come  home  at  night  she 
looks  more  pining  and  wasted  than  when  I 
left  her  in  the  morning,  and  it's  a  pity  to 
see  such  a  nice  bonny  little  lass  as  she  was, 
changed  into  a  poor  pale  thing,  starting  ana 
frightened  if  a  dog  does  but  bark,  and  so 
worn  out  by  the  noises  of  the  other  children 
and  baby's  crying.  I'm  sure  if  they  could  do 
her  any  good,  I'd  let  her  go  to  the  hospital ; 
for,  take  all  the  care  and  pains  you  can,  it's 
clear  to  me  she  gets  worse  instead  of  better; 
and  pains  enough  you  do  take,  that  is  certain, 


THE    HOSPITAL.  7 

for  you  have  rest  neither  night  nor  day  with 
her." 

The  eonversation  lasted  some  time  ;  and 
under  her  husband's  way  of  looking  on  the 
subject,  the  poor  anxious  mother  began  to 
make  up  her  mind,  that  if  it  could  be  proved 
really  for  her  child's  good,  she  would  part 
with  her,  and  commit  her  to  the  care  of 
strangers.  It  is  not  necessary  to  explain  all 
that  passed ;  the  doctor  repeated  his  assurance 
to  William  Freeman,  and  it  was  settled  at  last, 
that  on  the  following  Monday  Phoebe  should 
be  taken  to  the  hospital.  The  town  was  six 
miles  off;  but  William  Freeman  did  not  think 
much  of  this  distance,  though  with  his  little 
girl  in  his  arms.  It  made  him  sad,  indeed, 
to  think,  as  he  started  on  the  journey,  how 
slight  her  weight  was,  and  how  small  a  bur- 
den and  hindrance. 

Phoebe,  as  her  father  said,  had  been,  till 
the  last  few  months,  a  fine,  healthy  child ;  but 


8 

an  illness  then  came  upon  her  which  defied 
all  home-treatment,  and  all  the  receipts  of 
the  most  experienced  neighbors,  and  even 
did  not  give  way  under  the  doctor's  reme- 
dies, who  explained  to  her  father,  that  she 
needed  some  most  expensive  medicines,  and 
also  other  things  which,  situated  as  they  were, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  them  to  provide 
for  her.  The  poor  child  was  sorry  to  leave 
home,  and  felt  grieved  at  her  mother's  distress 
at -parting  from  her,  but  she  was  too  uncom- 
fortable and  ill  in  her  own  feelings  to  be  able 
to  enter  thoroughly  into  what  was  passing, 
and  the  promise  held  out  to  her  of  getting 
better,  reconciled  her  to  a  good  deal. 

"  Don't  cry,  mother,"  she  said ;  "  perhaps  I 
shall  come  back  again  quite  well ;"  but  her 
smile  was  so  faint  and  languid  as  she  spoke, 
that  her  mother  found  it  harder  than  ever  to 
restrain  her  tears. 

Her  last  care  had  been  to  wrap  the  poor 


THE    HOSPITAL.  9 

child  up  in  every  warm  thing  the  house  con- 
tained, and  so  defended,  she  reached  the  town 
without  feeling  much  of  the  keen  March  wind. 

The  hospital  at  N was  a  large  building 

on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  thither  her 
father  made  his  way  at  once.  It  was  Monday 
morning  and  the  time  for  receiving  patients, 
and  Phoebe  felt  rather  frightened  and  bewil- 
dered when  her  father  set  her  down  in  the 
midst  of  a  little  crowd  of  sick  people  collected 
there  from  different  parts  of  the  country  in  the 
same  hope  of  relief.  She  had  presently  to  go 
through  the  further  alarm  of  being  examined 
and  questioned  by  the  physician ;  and  after  this 
was  over,  she  was  given  into  the  charge  of  a 
nurse,  and  told  to  go  up  stairs,  where  she 
would  be  instructed  where  to  go  and  what  to 
do.  The  time  had  now  come  for  her  father  to 
take  leave  of  her,  and  then  it  did  seem  a  hard 
thing  to  him  to  say  good-bye  to  his  little  girl 
of  but  nine  years  old,  and  leave  her  amongst 


10 

strangers.  He  felt  no  doubt,  however,  that  he 
was  doing  right,  and  besides  he  was  comforted 
by  the  doctor's  kind  manner,  and  the  nurse's 
promises  of  attention  ;  so  he  kissed  little 
Phoebe,  and  was  able  to  conceal  from  her  the 
sadness  that  was  in  his  heart  while  he  did  so. 
The  poor  child  saw  him  go  before  she  fully  un- 
derstood what  had  happened ;  for  she  was  con- 
fused by  the  new  and  strange  scene,  and  besides 
felt  weak  and  ill  after  her  journey.  It  was  not 
thought  necessary  for  her  to  go  to  bed,  or  to  be 
confined  to  her  own  ward,  so  she  was  taken  to 
what  is  called  the  convalescent  room,  that  is, 
the  room  where  those  who  are  getting  better,  or 
who  are  not  bad  enough  to  be  obliged  to  lie  in 
bed  in  the  day-time,  spend  their  time.  Several 
women  were  there,  and  two  or  three  quite 
young  people ;  but  none  so  young  as  she  was. 
Most  of  them  looked  very  pale  and  sickly  to 
Phoebe,  who  had  never  seen  much  of  illness, 
and    the    whole    place,    she    thought,    seemed 


THE    HOSPITAL.  11 

strange  and  dull.  Some  few  were  engaged 
in  needle- work,  and  some  were  reading  books, 
their  Bibles  and  Prayer-books,  or  others  that 
the  clergyman  had  provided  for  them ;  but  few 
sick  people  can  either  read  or  work  for  long  at 
a  time ;  so  that  generally  the  women  were 
resting  themselves  on  the  seats  and  long  settles, 
or  talking  now  and  then  to  one  another  in  a 
low  voice.  Phoebe  was  suffered  to  take  her 
place  among  them  without  much  notice;  prob- 
ably they  thought  she  would  rather  not  have 
any  attention  paid  her,  for  she  sat  herself  down 
in  a  corner  as  soon  as  she  could,  as  if  wishing 
to  avoid  observation.  This  first  day  seemed 
very  long ;'  the  only  things  to  make  a  change 
to  her  were,  first,  dinner,  which  she  could  not 
eat,  and  then  a  dose  of  very  bitter  medicine, 
which  she  contrived  to  swallow  with  less  diffi- 
culty than  she  usually  made  at  home,  because 
she  feared  to  draw  attention  upon  her  by 
making  a  fuss  about  it ;    and  last  came  tea, 


12 

which  she  found  very  refreshing.  The  nurse 
then  took  her  to  her  ward  ;  for  this  is  the  name 
of  the  bedrooms  at  a  hospital ;  and  showed  her 
which  bed  was  to  be  hers.  It  looked  very 
clean  and  comfortable ;  and  after  a  long  and 
weary  day  Phoebe  felt  glad  and  thankful  to  lie 
down  to  rest  once  more.  As  she  knelt  down 
and  said  her  prayers,  it  made  her  feel  less 
lonely  to  think  that  her  mother  would  pray  for 
her  too  that  night,  and  in  this  thought  she  fell 
more  soundly  asleep  than  she  had  often  done 
lately. 

She  did  not  wake  again  till  the  middle  of  the 
night,  when  the  restless  feelings  of  her  illness 
generally  came  most  strongly  upon  her ;  and 
she  was  beginning  to  call  out  for  her  mother  to 
come  to  her,  as  she  was  used  to  do,  when  the 
thought  rushed  upon  her  mind  that  her  mother 
was  far,  far  away,  and  that  she  was  amongst 
strangers.  Poor  child !  it  was  more  than  she 
could  bear  at  such  a  time;  for  who  does  not 


THE    HOSPITAL.  13 

know  what  feelings  of  fear  and  distress  and 
alarm  will  often  crowd  upon  the  mind  at  night, 
which  the  day  shows  to  be  unreasonable  and 
vain?  She  was  ill  too,  and  at  that  moment 
thought  herself  even  more  ill  than  she  was; 
and  the  end  was,  that  after  a  frightened  glance 
round  the  dimly-lighted  room,  she  gave  way  to 
a  flood  of  tears,  which,  when  once  begun,  she 
could  not  stop,  and  which  almost  threatened  to 
get  beyond  her  control.  At  this  moment  some 
one  in  the  farthest  bed,  who  till  then  seemed  to 
have  been  asleep,  rose  up  and  throwing  a  large 
cloak  round  her,  approached  the  bedside  of  the 
poor  disconsolate  child.  This  was  Mary  Grey, 
a  young  woman  who  had  been  for  some  time  a 
patient  in  the  house,  and  who  had  observed 
Phoebe  from  her  first  arrival,  but  being  a  shy, 
retired  person,  had  not  liked  to  be  the  first 
to  take  notice  of  her.  But  now  when  she  heard 
her  distress,  she  willingly  rose  from  her  bed,  in 
no  ill  humour  though  roused  from  a  comfortable 


14 

sleep  which  she  much  needed,  and  went  to  try 
what  she  could  do  to  soothe  and  comfort  her. 
At  the  same  time  a  voice  from  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room  cried  out,  in  peevish  tones  : — 

"  Oh  !  for  goodness'  sake  stop  that  child  ; 
it's  bad  enough  when  one  is  well  to  have 
their  crying  and  noise,  but  when  one  is  ill, 
it's  past  all  bearing ;"  then  raising  herself 
with  a  sudden,  impatient  movement,  as  her 
first  complaint  did  not  seem  to  be  attended 
to,  she  added,  "Do  be  quiet,  I  tell  you ;  do 
you  think  nobody  is  ill  but  yourself?" 

This  angry  appeal  did  Phoebe  good  so  far, 
that  it  roused  her  and  stopped  her  tears,  from 
very  surprise :  she  had  in  fact  hitherto  been 
allowed  to  give  way  to  her  feelings  far  too 
much  for  her  own  good,  her  mother  having 
been  always  too  patient  and  forbearing  to  like 
to  use  any  authority.  She  had  considered, 
justly  enough,  that  such  attacks  were  caused 
by  illness,  and  so  must  be  excused ;  but  she 


THE    HOSPITAL.  15 

had  not  thought  sufficiently,  that  though  ex- 
cusable, it  was  the  worst  possible  thing  for 
the  child  to  be  allowed  to  indulge  in  them ; 
and  so  it  happened  that  Phoebe  had  never 
received  such  a  check  before,  and  the  effect 
was  certainly  good  upon  her,  for  she  was 
silent  at  once.  In  this  moment  Mary  Grey 
came  softly  up  to  her,  and  speaking  to  her 
in  a  kind  voice,  asked  her  what  was  the 
matter  that  she  cried  so  sadly ;  and  gently 
reminded  her  at  the  same  time,  by  way  of 
explaining  the  angry  voice  from  the  corner, 
that  other  people  were  ill  too,  and  that  it  was 
not  kind  or  right  to  disturb  them  more  than 
could  be  helped.  Phoebe  felt  the  reasonable- 
ness of  this,  and  besides  was  comforted  by 
Mary's  soft,  gentle  voice,  and  by  the  thought 
that  a  kind  person  was  near  her;  and  after 
answering  her  questions  in  as  calm  and  quiet 
a  manner  as  she  could,  she  promised  to  try 
to  go  to  sleep,  and  resolutely  shut  her  eyes 


16  PHCEBE;      OR, 

to  do  so.  Mary  still  sat  on  the  bed,  and 
Phoebe  was  glad  for^her  to  be  there.  While 
her  eyes  were  closed,  she  could  almost  fancy 
it  her  mother  still  at  hand ;  but  another 
minute  or  two  reminded  her  that  it  would  be 
very  selfish  of  her  to  allow  her  new  friend 
to  tire  herself  only  to  please  her  fancy,  so 
she  begged  her  to  leave  her,  and  promised 
she  should  not  be  disturbed  any  more  ;  and 
this  was  whispered  so  gently  and  softly,  that 
the  sleeper  in  the  other  corner  (for  the  angry 
voice  had  fallen  asleep  again)  could  not  be 
roused  by  it  ;  and  with  this  promise  Mary 
returned  to  her  little  bed,  and  in  another 
hour  all  in  the  room  were  again  at  rest. 

The  next  day  the  acquaintance  thus  begun 
between  Phoebe  and  Mary  Grey  made  consid- 
erable progress.  Phoebe  naturally  felt  anxious 
to  see  her  new  friend  by  daylight,  to  judge 
if  she  liked  her  appearance  as  well  as  her 
soft  voice   and   kind   words.      And   she  was 


THE    HOSPITAL.  17 

not  disappointed ;  for  Mary  was  certainly  a 
very  pleasing-looking  person,  fair  and  modest, 
and  quiet  in  all  her  motions.  There  was 
only  one  drawback  to  the  pleasure  of  looking 
at  her;  but  that  was  a  sad  one.  Mary  was 
very  pale ;  and  often  she  would  start  and  put 
her  hand  to  her  side  or  her  head,  as  if  struck 
with  a  sudden  attack  of  pain.  When  the 
doctor  of  the  house,  too,  came  up  to  her  and 
made  his  usual  inquiries,  he  looked  serious 
and  grave,  so  that  Phoebe,  who  was  by, 
felt  sure  he  thought  her  very  ill.  Perhaps 
Mary  thought  so  too,  but  it  did  not  make 
any  difference  in  her  manner ;  and  when  he 
had  passed  on,  she  turned  again  to  Phoebe 
as  calmly  and  quietly  as  before,  and  encour- 
aged her  to  go  on  with  what  she  was  saying. 
You  may  fancy  what  a  relief  it  was  to  Phoebe 
to  be  able  to  talk  of  home  and  all  that  inter- 
ested her.  There  was  a  danger,  indeed,  of 
her  talking  too  much  and  too  long ;  bnt  Mary 


18  PHCEBE;     OE, 

perceived  that  she  looked  tired  and  excited 
before  she  was  aware  of  it  herself,  and  ad- 
vised her  to  go  and  lie  quietly  on  the  bed 
for  a  little  while,  which  she  did.  She  made 
as  little  noise  as  possible ;  'for  the  owner  of 
the  angry  voice  in  the  corner,  whose  name 
was  Hannah  Sanders,  was  still  there,  not  hav- 
ing risen  with  the  others.  Her  appearance, 
however,  was  not  very  alarming ;  she  was, 
in  fact,  rather  a  pretty  young  woman,  with 
no  look  of  particular  ill  health  about  her, 
nor  of  ill  humour  now  the  night  was  over. 
She  asked  Phoebe  some  questions,  as  to  who 
was  in  the  great  room,  &c. ;  but  as  she  had 
not  yet  become  acquainted  with  many  names, 
she  could  not  satisfy  her  curiosity.  When  she 
lay  clown  she  felt  very  restless  and  poorly, 
but  kept  as  quiet  as  she  could,  took  the  medi- 
cine that  was  brought  her,  and  had  sunk  to 
sleep  when  she  was  roused  by  voices  near 
her.     It  was  Hannah  Sanders  conversing  with 


THE    HOSPITAL.  19 

a  friend  out  of  the  town,  who  had  come  to 
pay  her  a  visit.  They  were  talking  over  the 
inmates  of  the  house,  and  Phcebe  paid  little 
attention  to  their  conversation  till  she  heard 
the  name  of  Mary  Grey.  The  new  comer 
seemed  to  know  her,  and  spoke  well  of  her. 

"  I'm  sorry  she  should  be  ill,  poor  thing," 
she  said  ;  "  she  seems  so  friendless,  having 
neither  father  nor  mother  belonging  to  her, 
and  so  steady  and  thoughtful  as  she  is.  What 
is  the  matter  with  her?" 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,"  answered  Hannah  ; 
"  she  looks  like  a  ghost,  and  I  don't  think 
the  doctors  can  do  her  any  good.  It's  my 
opinion  that  it's  something  they  can  do  noth- 
ing with  that  makes  her  ill." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?"  said  the  other,  with 
some  curiosity. 

"  Well,  I  think  she  takes  William's  conduct 
to  heart.  You  know  they  were  to  have  been 
married  long  before  this,  and  now  he  has  left 


20 

the  town ;  lie  went  off  with  some  excuse  about 
seeking  for  work  elsewhere,  and  she  has  heard 
nothing  of  him  for  months." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  friend;  "well,  I  should 
have  thought  better  of  him  than  to  think  he 
would  do  such  a  thing — such  a  steady  young 
man  and  punctual  at  his  church  as  he  was !" 

"  Well  I  don't  see  such  great  harm,"  added 
the  other ;  "  she  is  so  quiet  and  formal  in  her 
ways,  that  I  dare  say  he  got  tired  of  it;  and 
besides,  she  was  beginning  to  be  sickly  and 
poorly ;  and  what  can  a  poor  man.  do  with  a 
sickly  wife  ?  I  did  hear  that  William  is  court- 
ing another  young  woman.  I  asked  Mary 
about  it  the  other  day,  for  I  thought  it  would 
do  her  good  to  know  every  thing,  and  would 
set  up  her  spirit.  She  said  nothing,  and  looked 
as  cool  as  she  could,  as  if  she  cared  nothing 
about  it ;  but  I  could  see  she  had  heard  it 
before." 

"  She  is  better  a  great  deal  without  him,  if  he 


THE    HOSPITAL.  21 

is  such  a  one  as  you  think,"  said  the  friend  in 
some  indignation,  "  and  a  girl  of  her  sense  will 
think  so,  I  hope." 

Soon  after,  the  visitor  left,  and  Phoebe  re- 
mained in  silence  to  ponder  over  what  she  had 
heard,  and  to  grieve  over  Mary's  state  of  health 
that  all  seemed  to  think  so  ill  of.  She  was  full 
of  these  feelings  when  she  next  saw  Mary ;  but 
then  she  looked  so  calm  and  easy,  thought  so 
little  of  herself,  and  seemed  so  glad  to  help 
others  who  needed  help,  that  it  was  impossible 
not  to  think  better  of  her  case. 

Hannah  Sanders  came  into  the  convalescent 
room  at  the  same  time  with  Phoebe.  She  was 
fast  recovering,  and  was  in  high  spirits  and  full 
of  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  leaving.  She 
talked  a  great  deal  about  herself  to  Mary,  who 
seemed  a  kind  listener  to  every  body,  and  de- 
scribed all  the  places  she  had  been  at  in  a  way 
that  amused  Phoebe  a  good  deal,  who  had  never 
before  been  in  the  way  of  hearing  such  talk : 


22        *  phcebe;   ok, 

but  though,  she  was  amused,  she  could  not 
like  Hannah  very  much,  and  she  was  there- 
fore quite  puzzled  to  hear  from  her  what  a 
high  value  all  her  friends  and  the  mistress 
whom  she  was  with,  seemed  to  have  for  her ; 
and  Phcebe  could  not,  in  spite  of  herself, 
help  feeling  respect  for  a  person  who,  by  her 
own  account,  could  do  so  many  things  better 
than  any  body  else ;  who  was  so  trustworthy, 
and  thoughtful,  and  handy,  and  industrious, 
that  no  one  ever  could  be  found  to  supply 
her  place.  It  must  be  very  nice,  thought 
Phcebe,  to  be  so  well  thought  of,  and  to  do  so 
many  things  well ;  but  I  wonder  she  should 
like  to  talk  of  it.  Then  she  began  to  wish 
Mary  would  begin  to  tell  something  about 
herself,  and  was  half  inclined  to  be  vexed  at 
first  that  she  had  nothing  to  boast  of  in  re- 
turn. But  Mary  listened  very  quietly,  and 
did  not  seem  at  all  inclined  to  interrupt  or 
take  her  share  in  the  conversation,  till  Han- 


THE    HOSPITAL.  23 

nail  began  to  reflect  on  the  treatment  she  had 
received  in  the  house. 

"  She  could  not  say  that  she  had  been  at- 
tended to  as  she  had  expected,  and  indeed  she 
had  a  good  many  things  to  complain  of." 

"  Have  you  ?"  said  Mary  very  gently. 
"  Well,  you  have  a  home  and  plenty  of 
places  to  go  to,  and  I  suppose  that  makes 
you  particular ;  but  it  is  different  with  me, 
and  I  never  can  be  thankful  enough  for  all 
the  care  and  kindness  I  have  found  here.  It 
makes  my  heart  full  whenever  I  think  of  it. 
I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Maynard  (the  house- 
surgeon)  cares  as  much  about  us,  and  that 
every  thing  we  take  should  do  us  good,  as 
if  we  were  his  children." 

"  You  may  be  a  favourite,"  answered  the 
other:  "  but  I  must  say  for  myself,  that  he 
will  never  hear  half  I  have  got  to  say,  but 
seems  in  such  a  hurry." 

u  At  least,"  said  Mary,   with  a  smile,  "  he 


24 

lias  done  you  good,  he  and  all  the  doctors 
together;  for  you  don't  look  like  the  same 
person  you  were  when  you  came  in/' 

"  Yes,"  answered  Hannah  ;  "  but  there  are 
not  many  with  such  a  constitution  as  I  have. 
I  go  out  next  Monday,"  she  continued,  after 
a  little  pause ;   "  how  long  do  you  stay  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  Mary  replied  ;  "  not 
very  much  more,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Oh  dear,"  exclaimed  Hannah,  "  I  shall 
be  so  glad  to  get  away !" 

"  Yes,  because  you  are  nearly  well,  and 
will  be '  able  to  take  your  place  directly ;  but 
I,  you  know,  I  have  nobody  near  belonging 
to  me,  and  I  can't  think  of  being  a  burden 
to  any  one,  though  nobody  can  be  a  kinder 
friend  than  Ellen  Swain." 

"  Ah !  that's  she  you  used  to  lodge  with," 
said  the  other  carelessly;  and  something  com- 
ing to  interrupt  them,  the  conversation 
ended. 


THE    HOSPITAL.  25 

One  of  the  chief  subjects  of  interest  amongst 
the  women  in  the  convalescent  room  was  the 
sad  case  of  a  poor  little  boy,  who  had  been 
brought  into  the  hospital  some  days  before 
Phoebe  came  there,  on  having  met  with  a 
dreadful  accident  in  the  mill  in  which  he  was 
working,  by  which  his  leg  was  so  seriously 
injured,  that  the  surgeons  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  take  it  off  immediately.  There  had 
happened  at  the  time  of  his  admission  to  be 
a  woman  in  the  hospital  who  knew  the  poor 
boy,  from  having  lived  in  the  same  court 
with  his  parents,  and  who  could,  therefore, 
tell  a  good  deal  about  him  ;  and  this,  of  course, 
had  made  her  anxious  to  learn  all  she  could 
of  his  case  from  the  nurse  who  attended  upon 
him.  The  account  she  heard  was  not  very 
satisfactory.  The  nurse  had  described  him  as 
having  borne  the  operation  with  great  cour- 
age— "like  a  man,"  as  she  said,  "without 
shedding    a    tear,    or    giving   way   under   the 


26  phcebe;    or, 

worst  pain."  All  this  sounded  well ;  but  he 
had  been  throughout  sullen  and  discontented: 
his  misfortune  seemed  to  harden  his  heart,  so 
that  he  turned  away  from  words  of  kindness, 
and  appeared  only  anxious  to  be  unnoticed, 
showing  especial  annoyance  when  people  ex- 
pressed before  him  the  pity  and  compassion 
which  all  must  feel  for  a  child  under  such 
circumstances.  This  frame  of  mind  injured 
his  health,  and  at  first  even  threatened  his 
life.  However,  in  spite  of  it,  he  was  now 
considered  out  of  danger,  and  was  slowly  re- 
covering. These  particulars  Phcebe  gathered 
from  a  conversation  between  her  friend  Mary 
Grey  and  the  woman  before-mentioned,  both 
of  whom  made  many  natural  reflections  on' the 
sad  state  of  mind  the  unhappy  boy  seemed  to 
be  in. 

"  Such  a  trouble  must  be  bad  indeed  to 
bear,"  said  Mary,  "  if  he  does  not  know  Who 
sends  it  to  him." 


THE    HOSPITAL.  27 

"  There  it  is,"  said  her  companion  ;  then 
lowering  her  voice  for  Mary  alone  to  hear, 
— "  One  does  not  like  to  speak  against  one's 
neighbors,  but  the  truth  is,  he  was  ill  taught 
before  he  came  here.  He  has  no  mother  of 
his  own,  poor  thing,  and  was  sent  to  the 
mills  before  he  was  fit  for  it,  by  his  step- 
mother, who  thought  him  an  incumbrance 
that  she  would  get  rid  of  as  soon  as  she 
could." 

"  Poor  thing !"  said  Mary  ;  "  and  what  will 
become  of  him  now,  when  he  is  likely  to  be 
an  incumbrance  all  his  life?" 

In  the  mean  time  Phoebe  was  improving 
in  her  health  every  day,  and  the  sense  of 
returning  strength  made  her  very  happy, 
though  in  the  place  where  she  had  at  first 
felt  so  dreary  ;  and  no  wonder :  indeed,  she 
would  have  thought  herself  quite  ungrateful 
if  it  had  been  otherwise,  for  all  the  people 
were  kind  to  her,  and  she  well  knew  that 


28  PHOEBE;      OR, 

every  thing  was  done  that  could  be  done  for 
her  comfort  and  amendment. 

As  the  weather  was  now  very  mild  and 
fine,  she  was  allowed  to  go  out  into  the 
grounds  belonging  to  the  hospital  every  day 
about  noon ;  and  though  these  were  not  so 
pretty  and  cheerful  as  the  fields  and  nice 
cottage-gardens  of  her  own  village,  she  quite 
enjoyed  the  change  after  being  so  long  con- 
fined within  doors ;  and  as  she  watched  the 
young  leaves  opening  out  on  the  shrubs,  and 
felt  the  soft  wind  blowing  upon  her,  the 
thought  that  she  should  soon  be  well  and  be 
able  to  return  home,  brought  feelings  of  joy 
that  she  had  never  known  before.  However, 
she  was  not  yet  strong  enough  for  much 
exertion,  and  a  little  walking  made  her  tired, 
so  that  she  was  glad  to  turn  for  a  rest 
towards  a  sheltered  arbour,  which  had  been 
placed  for  the  comfort  of  the  patients  near 
the   gravel-walk   laid   out    for   their   exercise- 


THE    HOSPITAL.  29 

ground.  She  was  not  aware  that  any  one 
was  seated  there  before  she  came  close  up  to 
it,  and  then  she  found  it  occupied  already  by 
a  little  boy  of  about  eleven  years  old.  He 
looked  very  pale,  but  it  was  not  his  paleness 
that  struck  her  so  much  as  the  look  of 
misery  and  wretchedness  that  was  expressed 
in  his  thin  features.  Another  glance  showed 
her  the  poor  mutilated  limb  ;  and  she  had 
no  doubt  of  its  being  poor  Simon  Milford, 
of  whom  she  had  so  often  heard.  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  turn  back  ;  but  her  next 
thought  was,  that  he  might  think  she  shrunk 
from  him,  and  she  stood  still  and  irresolute. 
He  had,  however,  been  quick  to  observe  her 
first  movement,  and  to  give  the  meaning  to 
it  she  had  feared  ;  and  exclaiming,  in  a  hur- 
ried tone,  "  You  needn't  go !  I'm  going  my- 
self !"  he  began  hastily  to  feel  about  for  his 
crutches.  However,  he  was  not  yet  accus- 
tomed to  the  use  of  them ;  and  in  his  impa- 


30  P  H  CE  B  E  ;      O  R, 

tient  tremour,  let  both  fall  to  the  ground,  thus 
leaving  himself  helpless.  Phcebe  ran  to  pick 
them  up,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  "  There 
is  room  enough  on  this  great  bench  for  us  • 
both  ;  but  if  you  would  rather  I  went  away, 
I  will  go.". 

"  It  is  no  matter  to  me,"  he  answered, 
sullenly  ;  however,  as  he  made  no  further 
attempt  to  rise,  being,  perhaps,  vexed  at 
having  to  show  his  awkwardness  before  a 
stranger,  Phoebe  sat  down  to  rest  at  the  other 
end  of  the  bench,  and  both  remained  silent 
for  some  time.  At  length,  Phcebe,  whose 
mind  was  dwelling  on  his  terrible  misfortune, 
could  not  help  saying,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for 
you ;  it  must  be  very  bad  to  bear." 

Simon  shrunk  at  hearing  her  words,  and 
exclaimed,  hastily,  "  Don't  speak  of  it ;  don't 
look  at  me;  I  can't  bear  it." 

"  Have  I  vexed  you  ?"  Phoebe  answered, 
timidly ;  "  I'm  sure  I  did  not  mean  it." 


THE    HOSPITAL.  31 

"  Every  body  vexes  me  that  pities  me," 
he  answered  ;  "I  want  nobody  to  take  any 
notice  of  me  again  as  long  as  I  live." 
*  "  Oh,  you  won't  think  so  when  you  get 
home  !"  exclaimed  Phoebe  ;  "  you  are  strange 
here,  that's  the  reason  ;  but  when  you  are 
with  your  mother  again,  you'll  feel  happier." 

"  I  have  no  mother,"  he  answered,  gloomily. 

"  No  mother !"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of  sor- 
rowful pity. 

"  My  mother  died  before  I  was  six  years 
old,"  he  continued  ;   "  I've  a  step-mother  now." 

Phoebe  made  no  answer ;  she  was  thinking 
over  what  he  had  said,  when  he  went  on  as  if 
talking  to  himself.  "  A  fine  nuisance  I  shall  be 
thought  when  I  get  home  again.  I  suppose 
they'll  get  me  into  the  workhouse  if  they  can." 

"  Oh,  no,"  cried  Phoebe,  "  they'll  never  be 
so  cruel  as  to  send  you  away." 

"Why,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  better  there 
than  any  where  else,"  he  replied.     "  I  sha'nt 


32  phcebe;    ok, 

have  all  the  boys  staring  and  laughing  at 
me  whenever  I  put  my  face  out  of  the  door, 
nor  see  them  play  myself." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  have  such  thoughts  !" 
Phoebe  exclaimed.  "  Nobody  in  the  world 
would  laugh  at  such  trouble  as  yours." 

"  Won't  they  ?"  he  answered,  with  a  sort 
of  contempt.  "  I  know  I've  laughed  at  old 
Joe  Thompson's  wooden  leg  many  a  time ; 
and  what's  the  difference  between  him  and 
me  now?  no  doubt  they  have  a  right  to 
do  it." 

Phcebe  said  nothing.  There  was  something 
in  his  way  of  talking  that  she  did  not  like, 
and  she  was  wishing  for  a  good  excuse  for 
going  away  without  giving  offence.  Simon, 
perhaps,  observed  the  effect  of  what  he  had 
been  saying ;  for,  as  if  defending  himself,  he 
continued,  "  Why,  have  not  I  enough  to  make 
me  cross  and  vexed?" 

"  Oh,    yes,"   she    replied ;    "  nobody   knows 


THE     HOSPITAL.  33 

how  they  could  bear  such  a  trouble  ;  but 
you  seem  to  like  to  think  most  of  the  things 
that  vex  you  ;  now,  you  know,  people  who 
know  best,  say,  the  worst  things  happen  for 
our  good." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  very  impatiently ; 
"  so  people  talk  who  have  no  trouble  of 
their  own ;  but  how  can  it  be  for  my  good 
to  lose  my  leg,  and  to  be  a  helpless,  useless 
cripple  all  my  life — a  burden  to  people  who 
will  want  me  out  of  their  way  ?" 

Simon  began  his  speech  in  anger,  but  as 
he  counted  up  his  ill  prospects  and  his  trou- 
bles, his  courage  gave  way,  and  he  burst  into 
tears. 

"  How  I  wish  Mary  Grey  was  here !"  ex- 
claimed Phoebe ;  "  she  would  know  how  to 
comfort  you,  I  am  sure ;  and  I  don't  know 
what  to  say.  And  she  has  troubles  of  her 
own,  though  not  quite  like  yours,  yet  she  is 
contented  and  thankful  for  every  thing." 

3 


34  P  H  m  B  E  ;    O  K, 

"  Don't  tell  her  of  my  being  such  a  fool 
here,"  said  Simon,  in  alarm ;  "  and  look,  they 
are  coming  to  call  us  in  to  dinner ;"  and,  as 
if  glad  to  end  the  conversation,  he  began  to 
prepare  himself  for  the  painful  walk. 

It  was  a  good  sign,  however,  that  he  suf- 
fered Phoebe  to  help  him,  by  holding  his 
crutches  till  he  was  able  to  take  them,  and 
even  to  mutter  "  thank  you,"  when  she  had 
done  ;  though  a  good  deal  as  if  he  was 
ashamed  of  being  so  civil. 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  Phoebe  received 
a  visit  from  some  of  her  friends  who  had 
come  that  morning  from  her  own  village. 
They  brought  her  a  message  from  her  mother 
that  she  had  not  felt  strong  enough  to  walk 
over  to  see  her,  and  that  her  father  had  been 
unusually  busy ;  but  she  sent  her  love,  and 
a  fine  nosegay  that  the  children  had  gathered 
to  show  they  thought  of  her.  Phoebe's  eyes 
glistened  at  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  flowers, 


THE    HOSPITAL.  35 

and  at  the  thought  of  those  who  had  gath- 
ered and  sent  them,  and  still  more  so  when 
she  heard  the  doctor  tell  her  friends  that  her 
mother  might  come  for  her  in  ten  days'  time, 
unless  she  heard  to  the  contrary ;  for  that  if 
Phoebe  went  on  as  well  as  she  had  clone  lately, 
she  would  be  quite  fit  to  leave  the  hospital  by 
that  time. 

Her  visitors  could  not  stay  very  long;  and 
when  they  left,  Phoebe  went  to  the  garden  as 
usual,  carrying  her  precious  nosegay  with  her, 
her  heart  quite  dancing  with  pleasure  at  all  the 
thoughts  it  had  brought  with  it.  Suddenly, 
however,  she  remembered  her  good  friend  Mary 
Grey,  and  generously  resolved  to  make  her  a 
present  of  her  beautiful  flowers.  It  was  a  little 
sacrifice,  but  one  she  joyfully  made.  And  she 
turned  back  to  find  her  friend.  She  ran  up  to 
her  on  finding  her  alone. 

"  Look  here !"  she  exclaimed  ;  "here  is  some- 
thing to  do  you  good :  smell  how  sweet  I  — turn- 


36  PHOEBE;     OE, 

ing  the  violets,  that  clustered  at  the  bottom  of 
the  nosegay,  towards  her.  "  Take  them — thej 
come  fresh  from  our  garden,  and  you  shall  have 
them  all." 

Here  she  stopped  short ;  for  she  saw  Mary 
was  in  tears. 

"  Thank  3-011,  dear,"  she  answered ;  "  they 
are  very  beautiful,  but  I  won't  deprive  you  of 
them." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  Phoebe;  "if 
you  think  them  pretty,  pray  take  them." 

"  They  are  too  pretty  and  sweet  for  me,"  said 
Mary,  with  a  sad  smile :  "  my  head  is  so  bad  this 
morning,  that  I  can  hardly  look  at  any  thing, 
and  the  sweet  scent  seems  too  much  for  me. 
Look,  I  will  take  these  nice  fresh  primroses,  and 
thank  you  for  them,  and  you  shall  keep  the 
rest.  Why,  they  seem  to  have  done  you  good 
already :  I  never  saw  you  with  such  a  colour ; 
and  I  am  sure  you  are  nothing  like  so  thin  as 
when  you  first  came  in." 


THE    HOSPITAL.  37 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  Phoebe,  UI  feel  so  differ- 
ent ;  and  I'm  to  leave  next  Saturday  but  ouer 
and  go  home  again  to  them  all.  But  oh,  Mary, 
I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  you,  and  so  ill  as  you 
seem  just  now.  I  thought  you  were  a  great 
deal  better."     And  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  leave  at  the  same  time,"  said  Mary ; 
"and  I  am  better,  only  my  head  aches  just  now." 

"And  where  will  you  go?"  asked  Phoebe: 
"  is  it  anywhere  where  I  can  come  to  see  you 
some  times  ?" 

"No,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  Mary; 
and,  for  a  moment,  a  flush  came  over  her  face 
as  she  continued,  "  I  have  no  home  to  go  to  like 
yours,  and  I  am  not  strong  enough  yet  to  work 
for  my  living :  I  shall  have  to  go  to  the  poor- 
house." 

"  Ah,  and  it  is  that  that  makes  }^ou  cry,"  said 
Phoebe,  sorrowfully;   "I  am  so  sorry." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  can't  help  taking  it  a  little 
to  heart  more  than  I  ought ;  for  I  dare  say  I 


38 

shall  have  as  kind  treatment  there  as  here,  and 
it  is  God's  will  that  I  should  be  destitute.  I 
wish  to  feel  thankful  that  there  is  such  a  shelter 
for  me." 

Phoebe's  mind  wandered  to  what  she  had 
heard  from  Hannah,  and  a  thought  suddenly 
struck  her;  and,  lowering  her  voice,  she  said, 
11  Hannah  Sanders  will  be  here  very  soon — I 
saw  her  coming  this  way :  don't  let  her  see  you 
have  been  crying;  she  will  think  it  is  about 
something  quite  different." 

11  What  will  she  think?"  said  Mary,  with 
some  curiosity. 

Phoebe  felt  she  had  gone  too  far,  and  would 
have  gladly  been  silent ;  but  Mary  urged  her, 
and  soon  drew  from  her  the  gossip  that  had 
passed  within  her  hearing. 

It  seemed  to  move  Mary,  for  a  few  moments, 
a  good  deal ;  but  soon  she  spoke  very  calmly : 
"Hannah  Sanders  was  quite  mistaken  about 
me.    My  illness  would  have  come  upon  me 


THE    HOSPITAL.  39 

just  the  same  if  I  had  been  in  the  greatest 
prosperity  and  with  every  thing  I  could  desire 
about  me;  and  nothing  else  has  had  to  do 
with  it." 

"  Oh,  then  it's  all  a  mistake  about  William 
Johnson.     I'm  so  glad  !"  cried  Phoebe. 

"  It  is  all  a  mistake,  I  think,  about  William 
Johnson  being  the  sort  of  person  she  fancies," 
answered  Mary;  "  but  it  is  better  you  should 
not  think  of  such  foolish  gossip,  my  dear:  and 
you  will  do  me  a  kindness  to  bring  me  a  sheet 
of  paper  from  my  box,  as  I  want  to  write  a 
letter." 

Phcebe  soon  got  the  paper,  pen,  and  ink ;  and 
after  she  had  seen  that  the  pen  would  mark  and 
the  ink  was  not  too  thick,  she  followed  her  ori- 
ginal intention,  and  set  off  with  her  flowers  for 
a  walk  in  the  grounds,  leaving  Mary  to  herself, 
as  she  saw  she  desired  to  be. 

It  cost  Mary  some  trouble  to  write ;  for  her 
head  ached,  and  the  subjects  of  her  letter  were 


40 

painful  to  her :  but  she  knew  it  must  be  done, 
and  had  best  be  done  soon.  It  was  to  her 
friend  Ellen  Swain,  in  answer  to  one  she  had 
received  from  her  that  morning,  and  was  as 
follows : — 

"  Dear  Ellex, — Thank  you  for  your  letter, 
which  has  been  a  great  comfort  to  me  at  a  time 
I  wanted  comfort.  As  for  myself,  though  there 
has  been  no  great  change,  yet  I  fancy  myself 

better,  rather  than  worse.     I  pressed  Dr.  B 

to  tell  me  what  he  thought  of  my  case,  and 
hoped  he  would  be  quite  plain  with  me  ;  and  he 
said  he  thought  the  worst  of  my  illness  was 
over ;  but  he  could  not  tell  how  long  it  would 
be  before  I  can  hope  to  be  well  and  strong ;  at 
the  best,  he  says,  I  shall  mend  but  slowly,  and 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  take  to  my  work  again  for 
a  good  while.  It  is  about  this  that  I  wish  to 
write  to  you,  dear  Ellen,  and  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  into  the  poor- 
house.     I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  to  you 


THE    HOSPITAL.  41 

and  your  kind  husband  for  wishing  to  take  in  a 
poor  ailing  creature  as  I  am,  and  to  do  for  me 
and  provide  for  me  till  I  get  better  *  the  tears 
come  into  my  eyes  when  I  think  of  it ;  but  you 
have  children  of  your  own,  and  I  should  be 
glad  to  think  that  you  were  laying  up  for  them 
what  little  you  could  spare  against  an  evil  day 
— though  long  may  it  be  kept  from  you ;  and  I 
believe  it  would  be  a  weight  on  me,  that  would 
prevent  my  getting  well,  to  feel  myself  a  burden, 
though  well  I  know  you  would  not  think  me 
one.  I  won't  deny  that  it  has  been  a  struggle 
to  me  to  submit  to  this ;  but  surely  it  is  God's 
will:  and  I  am  ashamed  of  my  proud  heart, 
which  made  the  thought  hard  to  bear  at  first ; 
but  it  is  so  no  longer,  and  I  feel  far  happier  to 
have  made  up  my  mind. 

"  There  was  but  one  part  of  your  letter  that 
troubled  me  :  it  was  the  anger  you  express 
against  William  Johnson.  I  can't  explain  his 
conduct  any  more  than  you ;  but  I  will  always 


42 

believe  that  some  mistake  is  at  the  bottom  of  his 
change,  though  we  may  never  know  what  it  is. 
We  both  have  known  him  from  a  boy,  and  how 
good  and  steady  he  always  was.  Is  it  likely  he 
should  turn  bad  all  at  once  ?  It  would  be 
worse  than  any  thing  that  has  happened  to  me 
to  have  to  think  it.  And  having  said  this,  dear 
Ellen,  you  would  confer  a  great  kindness  on 
me  never  to  name  the  subject  to  me  again.  I 
am  quite  sure  it  does  harm  to  talk  much  on 
such  matters ;  and  it  is  for  the  good  of  my  body, 
and  mind  too,  to  keep  my  thoughts  as  calm  and 
peaceful  as  I  can :  and  if  I  do  but  learn  to  set 
my  mind  on  right  things,  then  every  thing  that 
happens  to  me — trouble,  or  sickness,  or  sorrow 
— will  be  all  for  my  good. 

"  I  am  to  leave  this  place  Saturday  week  :  it 
is  a  bad  day  for  you  to  leave  home  upon ;  yet  I 
think  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  come  for  me 
here,  and  walk  with  me  to  the  union-house  at 
once.     I  should  not  know  what  to  say  to  the 


THE    HOSPITAL.  43 

gentlemen  by  myself.     My  kind  love  to  your 
husband  and  the  children. 

"  Your  affectionate  friend, 

"Mary  Grey." 
In  the  mean  while  Phoebe  took  her  walk  in 
the  grounds,  and  when  tired  went  to  rest  in  the 
arbour.  She  had  not  been  there  long  when 
Simon  came  up,  a  little  disconcerted,  perhaps, 
to  see  her,  but  not  enough  to  make  him  turn 
back ;  so  he  took  his  seat  in  silence  at  the  other 
end  of  the  bench.  Phoebe,  too,  was  silent,  for 
their  last  conversation  had  made  her  afraid  of 
him ;  so  she  smelt  her  nosegay  and  examined 
the  different  flowers  that  she  might  seem  to 
have  something  to  do.  The  nosegay  was 
certainly  well  worth  looking  at,  for  its  own 
beauty  as  well  as  for  the  thoughts  it  brought 
along  with  it.  High  above  all  the  rest  were  a 
profusion  of  daffodils,  fresh  and  bright,  sur- 
rounded by  dark  rich-smelling  wall-flowers ; 
next  came  wild  anemones,  primroses,  southern- 


44 

wood,  and,  what  Phoebe  prized  much,  some 
deep-edge  polyanthus ;  and  clustering  at  the 
bottom,  choice  double  daisies,  and  violets,  blue 
and  white,  sweeter  than  all  the  rest. 

"  Those  are  nice  flowers,"  said  Simon  at  last, 
to  Phoebe's  great  surprise,  for  she  did  not  think 
he  would  care  for  them. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  gladly;  "should  you  like  to 
have  some  ?"  and  she  placed  them  in  his  hand. 

He  gladly  took  them,  and  buried  his  face 
among  the  flowers,  as  if  eager  to  breathe  in  their 
sweetness.  At  length  he  said :  "It  is  long 
since  I  held  such  a  nosegay  in  my  own  hand  :  it 
makes  me  think  of  when  I  was  qjrite  a  little 
fellow,  and  used  to  go  into  the  fields  and  bring 
home  as  many  daffodils  as  my  two  hands  would 
hold.    We  lived  in  the  country  then." 

"  There  are  not  many  fields  of  daffodils,"  said 
Phoebe. 

"  There  was  one  at  Marsden,  however,"  he 
answered. 


THE     HOSPITAL.  45 

"Why,  Marsden!"  cried  Phoebe;  "that  is 
close  where  we  live.  I  did  not  know  we  had 
been  neighbours." 

"  Ah !  it's  a  long  while  ago,"  said  Simon, 
sighing.  "Mother  was  alive  then;  and  I  often 
can't  think  I  am  the  same  boy  I  was  when  she 
used  to  take  me  to  church  with  her,  and  teach 
me  to  say  my  prayers ;  and  when  I  used  to  play 
about  the  lanes  and  garden." 

"  And  why  did  you  leave  such  a  nice  place?" 
asked  Phoebe. 

"  Father  thought  we  should  do  better,"  he 
replied,  "in  a  town,  and  that  there  would  be 

work  for  the  children ;  so  we  came  to  N . 

But  it  was  a  bad  change,  as  it  happened ;  for 
mother  was  never  strong,  and  she  got  worse 
in  the  town,  and  died  in  less  than  a  year." 

"  Oh,  what  a  loss  for  you !"  cried  Phoebe, 
in  a  compassionate  tone. 

"  You  may  well  say  so,"  he  answered, 
gloomily.      "  Every    thing    has    gone    wrong 


46  phcebe;    ok, 

since  ;  and  worst  of  all  with  me.  For  my 
father  soon  married  again  ;  and  she  never  took 
to  me.  She  was  not  like  my  mother,  but 
sharp  and  cross ;  and  I  vexed  her  by  some 
things  I  said,  and  so  she  has  never  liked  me. 
And  father  takes  notice  of  what  she  says 
against  me,  as  I  don't  deny  I  may  sometimes 
try  to  provoke  her  by  talking  how  differently 
my  own  mother  treated  me.  But  I  did  not 
mind  while  I  was  able  to  work ;  for  I  knew  I 
should  earn  more  every  year,  and  could  soon 
take  care  of  myself;  it  is  different  now  !"  His 
voice  faltered  as  he  spoke.  "  But,"  said  he, 
rousing  himself,  "  all  this  has  come  of  these 
flowers,  which  made  me  think  of  Marsden.  It 
is  odd  that  you  should  know  the  place." 

"It  is  not  a  mile  from  our  house,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  and  I  often  go  there  with  mother." 
This  led  to  their  recalling  together  all  the 
people  at  Marsden  that  both  knew ;  and  in 
such  talk,  and  the  pleasure  of  going  back  to 


THE    HOSPITAL.  47 

the  happiest  and  best  part  of  his  life,  Simon 
was  more  cheerful  than  he  had  been  for  many 
a  day.  It  was  a  subject,  too,  that  opened 
Phoebe's  little  heart  to  him;  and  she  talked 
away,  and  found  herself  in  fall  description  of 
the  sports  of  next  May-day,  before  she  reflected 
that  such  a  subject  might  be  rather  a  sad  one  to 
him.  He  would  not  let  her  stop,  however, 
though  he  understood  her  thought  ;  for  he 
liked  to  be  reminded  of  all  that  happened  at 
those  merry  times,  which  he  could  hardly 
recollect  by  himself.  But  together  they  could 
go  through  it  all,  from  the  day  before,  the  last 
day  of  April,  when  all  the  flowers  that  could 
be  found  in  field  and  garden  were  gathered, 
and  laid  by  in  water  for  the  next  morning,  to 
the  happy  moment  when  the  last  flower  was 
placed  on  the  garland  by  the  cleverest  and 
most  experienced  of  the  party.  Then  both 
related  together  how  the  May -morning  was 
spent  in  going  from  house  to  house  to  display 


48 

the  beautifu 


phcebe;    or, 

?ul  garland,  while  they  sung  the  May- 
day song,  and  collected  from  all  the  neighbours 
who  were  kind  enough  to  contribute  halfpence 
to  their  little  feast. 

"  And  you  forget  church  in  the  morning," 
said  Phcebe. 

"  I  don't  think  they  went  to  church  at  Mars- 
den,"  said  Simon. 

"  Oh,  but  they  do  with  us.  And  Mr.  Os- 
borne, our  clergyman,  likes  to  see  us  there. 
He  says  holydays  are  given  that  we  may  be 
happy,  and  thank  God  for  it ;  and  May-day  is 
one  of  the  holydays  in  the  Prayer-book,*  and 
that  is  why  we  keep  May-day." 

Simon  sighed.  "  Mother  used  to  take  me 
to  church  while  she  lived ;  and  I  used  to  like 
to  go  with  father  afterwards ;  but  since  he 
married  again,  he  has  not  cared  to  go  like  what 
he  used  to  do ;  he  says  he's  tired,  and  lies  in 

*  It  is  called  there  St.  Philip's  and  St.  James -day. 


THE    HOSPITAL.  §f49 

bed  on  Sunday  morning  ;  and  so  I  have  not 
been  either." 

"What,  don't  you  go  to  church  on  Sun- 
day ?"  cried  Phoebe.  "  Oh  I  that  is  very 
wrong  of  you.  Why  don't  you  go  to  the 
Sunday-school,  and  go  along  with  all  the  other 
boys?" 

"  Well,  father  always  talked  of  sending  me. 
But  the  boys  in  our  yard  used  to  go  out  in  the 
fields,  and  I  went  with  them ;  and  we  used 
to  have  fine  fan  sometimes,  such  as  I  can 
never  have  again.  But  if  ever  I  heard  the 
church-bells*  ringing,  though  we  were  ever  so 
merry,  the  thought  of  my  mother  holding  my 
hand,  as  she  used  to  do,  and  taking  me  to 
church,  used  to  come  into  my  mind,  and  take 
away  all  the  pleasure.  And  often  and  often 
I  would  have  left  them  all,  and  walked  off  to 
church  at  once,  only  I  was  afraid  they  would 
laugh  at  me  ;  and  so  I  was  ashamed." 

"  That    was    a    pity,"    said    Phoebe,    very 


50   . 

seriously;  and  she  was  silent  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. Then,  in  a  timid  tone,  she  said :  "  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  what  I  have  been  think- 
ing about ;  but  will  you  be  angry  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  he  replied,  with  a 
faint  smile ;   "  but  I'll  try  not." 

"  Well,  I  have  been  thinking  this,"  she  an- 
swered :  "  that  though  yours  is  such  a  very  bad 
misfortune,  yet  there  is  one  thing  that  may  be 
good  in  it.  You  can't  go  out  now  with  those 
naughty  boys  who  laugh  at  people  for  being 
good,  and  perhaps  you  will  go  to  church 
instead." 

"  Well,  but  I  could  have  gone  to  church  if  I 
had  liked  before,"  he  replied. 

"  Yes,  but  then  you  did  not  like,  and  now 
perhaps  you  will.  Those  boys  won't  be  such  a 
temptation  to  you.  You  will  like  to  keep  out 
of  their  way.  And  besides,  when  you  are  at 
church,  you  will  hear  about  heaven,  and  you 
will  like  to  hear  of  it,  and  will  get  not  to  mind 


THE    HOSPITAL.  51 

your  troubles  here,  so  you  can  get  there  at 
last." 

"  I  have  thought  so  little  about  right  things," 
said  Simon,  with  a  sigh,  "that  I  seem  hardly  to 
understand  you.  But  I  do  believe  that  I 
should  be  much  happier  if  such  thoughts  were 
in  my  mind.  Only,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  should 
not  know  where  to  begin." 

Phoebe  could  not  tell  him  exactly :  she  knew 
she  was  too  young  to  be  able  to  give  advice. 
But  they  both  continued  talking  some  time 
longer.  It  did  Simon  good  to  open  his  mind 
and  heart,  as  he  did  then ;  and  though  Phoebe 
was  too  little  to  be  a  teacher,  yet  he  could  see 
by  every  word  she  said  that  she  was  a  good 
little  girl,  anxious  to  do  and  say  what  was 
right.  Simon  began  to  be  sorry  he  had  said 
some  of  the  things  he  had  before  her,  and 
feared  she  would  dislike  him  for  it ;  for  he  saw 
how  different  her  ways  of  thinking  were  from 
what  his  had  been.    He  felt  anxious  she  should 


52 

think  more  favourably  of  him ;  and  though  this 
was  not  a  very  high  motive,  it  was  a  worthier 
one  than  had  moved  him  amongst  his  old  bad 
companions ;  so  that  he  really  was  in  a  better 
frame  of  mind  after  the  conversation  than 
before,  though  there  was  danger  of  the  im- 
provement not  lasting  long. 

Phoebe  told  Mary  Grey  what  they  had  been 
talking  of,  which  she  listened  to  with  kind 
interest.  Phoebe  wished  she  would  talk  to 
Simon ;  but  Mary  promised  to  do  a  better 
thing,  and  mention  him  to  Mr.  Day,  the  clergy- 
man of  the  hospital,  who  was  very  constant  in 
his  attendance,  and  was  particularly  kind  to 
Mary.  Simon  had  always  shown  himself  so 
dull  and  stupid  to  this  gentleman,  for  fear  he 
should  begin  to  talk  to  him  on  a  subject  he 
dreaded,  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  get  at 
his  feelings ;  but  when  Mary  told  him  what  she 
knew,  he  was  glad  to  make  a  further  attempt, 
and  this  time  with  better  success,  for  the  poor 


THE    HOSPITAL.  53 

boy  was  in  a  more  humble  frame  of  mind,  glad 
of  instruction,  and  ready  to  receive  it.  And 
though  he  still  continued  to  grieve  and  fret 
over  his  misfortune,  and  look  with  dread  to- 
wards his  future  life,  it  was  not  in  a  sullen  or 
discontented  spirit.  He  was  weak  and  helpless, 
and  without  friends  to- care  much  for  him  ;  and 
we  cannot  wonder  that  his  spirits  should  be 
borne  down,  and  that  he  should  feel  sad  and 
depressed.  But  in  the  midst  of  his  troubles  he 
listened  to  what  Mr.  Day  said  to  him,  was  at- 
tentive at  prayers,  and  did  his  best  to  under- 
stand what  he  heard  and  read ;  and  was  so 
much  more  civil  and  thankful  for  the  kindness 
he  received  and  the  attention  that  was  paid  to 
him,  that  the  good  nurse  was  quite  delighted 
in  the  change. 

Meantime  the  important  Saturday  was  ap- 
proaching. Phoebe  felt  so  well  that  she  was 
glad  to  be  allowed  to  make  herself  useful  in 
doing  little  errands  for  the  nurse,  or  helping 


54 

Mary  in, her  sewing  for  the  house;  for  Mary, 
though  often  a  great  sufferer,  was  always  glad 
to  do  what  she  could  to  assist  when  at  all  able 
to  do  so.  At  these  times,  when  they  were 
sitting  comfortably  together,  Phoebe  used  to  do 
her  best  to  amuse  Mary,  and  make  her  forget, 
what  she  never  could  quite  forget  herself,  that 
her  kind  friend  had  rather  a  sad  prospect 
before  her ;  and  that  the  day  of  parting,  which 
would  bring  so  much  pleasure  to  Phoebe,  would 
be  sad  indeed  to  Mary. 

At  last  it  came.  Phoebe  was  busy  early  in 
the  morning  making  up  her  little  bundle  of 
clothes,  before  her  mother  came  for  her,  that 
then  she  might  have  nothing  to  do  but  take 
leave  of  her  many  friends  in  the  hospital ;  for 
she  had  been  such  a  good,  obliging  child,  that 
she  was  a  general  favourite.  Mary,  too,  had  her 
preparations  to  make,  and  then  quietly  sat 
down  to  expect  Ellen  Swain,  still  busy  with 
some  needlework  the  nurse  had  given  her  to 


THE    HOSPITAL.  55 

do,  and  glad  to  keep  mind,  as  well  as  body,  as 
quiet  and  calm  as  possible.  Phcebe,  too,  every 
now  and  then  sat  down  by  her ;  but  she  was 
too  restless  to  settle  for  more  than  five  minutes 
in  any  one  place. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  see  Mother,"  she  began, 
u  if  only  she  comes  for  me ;  and  Mother  must 
see  Simon,  because  he  used  to  live  quite  close 
by  our  village.  I'll  just  go  and  see  if  any 
body's  come  yet." 

And  so  saying,  she  ran,  for  the  sixth  time  at 
least,  to  peep  down  the  staircase,  and  see  if  there 
were  any  arrivals  in  the  lobby  below.  A  few 
people  were  there,  though  none  she  recognised. 

But  the  porter  caught  sight  of  her: — "  Here, 
you  little  girl,  can  you  tell  Mary  Grey  she's 
wanted?  Here's  a  young  man  just  come  for 
her." 

Phcebe  flew  back  with  her  message. 

"A  young  man?"  said  Mary.  "It  must  be 
Ellen's  brother.     I  wish  she  could  have  come 


56 

herself:  but  I  knew  it  was  an  inconvenient  day 
for  her." 

And  she  stepped  down  stairs  at  once,  accom- 
panied by  Phoebe,  to  tell  her  guide  she  would 
get  ready  as  quickly  as  possible.  They  had 
nearly  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
Phoebe's  eyes  had  wandered  off  in  search  of 
new  arrivals,  when  she  felt  her  companion 
catch  hold  of  her  arm,  as  if  to  support  her- 
self. "  0  Mary,  you  are  ill !"  cried  Phoebe, 
observing  that  her  countenance  had  changed; 
but  then  following  the  direction  of  her  eyes, 
she  observed  a  person  advancing  hastily  to- 
wards them,  exclaiming,  "  0  Mary,  here  you 
are  at  last !"  Her  short  answer,  "  William, 
how  did  you  come  here?"  explained  it  all 
to  Phoebe.  It  was  William  Johnson  himself, 
looking  so  glad  and  so  sorry,  so  overjoyed  to 
see  Mary  again,  and  so  grieved  to  find  her  in 
such  a  place,  thin  and  pale,  and  altered;  that 
in  the  confusion  of  such  feelings  he  could  do 


THE    HOSPITAL.  57 

nothing  to  explain  why  lie  was  there,  nor  why 
he  had  delayed  coming  so  long.,  After  the  first 
moment,  however,  Mary  looked  perfectly  calm 
and  composed,  though  Phoebe  conld  still  feel 
her  hand  tremble.  "  I  expected  Ellen  Swain," 
she  continued;  "I  am  sorry  you  should  have 
come  here." 

"  Sorry  I  should  have  come !"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Why,  who  should  help  you  but  me?" 

"Do  not  speak  so  loud,"  said  Mary.  "See, 
those  people  are  looking  at  us." 

"Well,  well,  never  mind  them,"  he  answered 
hastily,  lowering  his  voice,  however,  at  the 
same  time.  "  Ellen  Swain  will  be  here  di- 
rectly. I  only  ran  on  and  got  here  a  few 
minutes  before  her,  for  she  has  her  baby  to 
carry.  She  and  I  have  talked  over  this  mis- 
take together,  and  found  out  how  it  all  hap- 
pened. It  has  made  me  a  great  deal  more 
miserable  than  ever  it  has  made  you,  I  am 
afraid ;  but  if  ever  I  can  find  the  heap  of  letters 


58 

I  Lave  written  to  yon,  that  through  Ellen 
Swain's  change  of  house  you  never  got,  (more 
shame  to  the  blundering  of  those  that  kept 
them,)  I'll  make  you  read  them  for  a  punish- 
ment. Thank  you  for  that  smile ;  it  makes 
you  look  more  like  what  you  used  to  do ;  but 
you  are  better,  Mary,  really  better,  Mary,  are 
you  not?  I  wish  you  did  not  look  so  thin; 
but  we'll  get  you  better,"  he  continued,  hope- 
fully. "  Come,  where  is  your  bonnet,  that  we 
may  set  off?  Ellen  will  be  here  by  the  time 
you  are  ready." 

"Oh,  but,  William,  do  you  know  where  we 
are  to  go ?"  cried  Mary.    " Did  Ellen  tell  you?" 

"Why,  to  her  house,  to  be  sure,"  he  ex- 
claimed: "where  else?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered ;  "  Ellen  knows  that 
I  intend  to  go  to  the  union." 

"  The  union !  0  Mary  ! — but  however,"  he 
added,  swallowing  as  if  to  get  rid  of  some  pain- 
ful feeling,  "when  Ellen  comes,  you  will  see 


THE    HOSPITAL.  59 

that  we  have  settled  all  about  it.  Trust  her,  if 
you  won't  trust  me.  0  Mary !  indeed  it  is  not 
my  fault  that  you  have  been  left  poor  and  des- 
titute all  this  while ;  only  come  and  I  will  ex- 
plain all  to  you,  if  only  we  can  get  out  of  this 
place." 

"Don't  speak  in  that  way,  please,"  said  Mary, 
"  of  a  place  that  has  been  a  kind  home  to  me  so 
long.  I  can  never  be  thankful  enough  for  what 
has  been  done  for  me  here." 

"  And  I  am  thankful  too,"  said  "William, 
"  and  grateful  to  those  who  have  helped  you ; 
only  just  now  I  seem  hardly  to  know  what  I 
say." 

At  this  moment  Ellen  Swain  entered,  carry- 
ing her  great  baby,  which  would  have  been  an 
excuse  for  a  longer  delay.  She  greeted  Mary 
with  an  affectionate  smile  before  they  were  near 
enough  to  speak,  and  soon  they  fell  into  an 
earnest  whispered  conversation,  in  which  Wil- 
liam seemed  to  feel  he  had  better  not  join.     He 


60 

stood  by,  looking  rather  anxious  and  impatient, 
until  Mary  at  length  observed  it,  and,  turning 
to  him,  said,  as  if  finishing  her  .conversation, 
"  "Well,  then,  I  will  come — I  won't  keep  you 
long;"  and  she  returned  with  Phoebe  up  stairs. 
Phoebe  had  heard  most  of  what  had  passed,  and 
had  wondered  within  herself  how  quiet  and 
composed  Mary  seemed.  She  did  not  seem  so 
happy  as  she  expected ;  however,  she  could  not 
help  saying,  "  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  not 
going  to  the  union ;  are  not  you,  Mary  ?" 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me,  please,  dear,"  said 
Mary,  hastily ;  "I  am  not  fit  for  talking  just 
now." 

"  Well,  but,  Mary,  you  are  happier  than  you 
were ;  you  are  glad,  are  you  not  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  believe  so,"  answered  Mary. 
"  Yes,  I  am  sure,  more  happy  than  you  can 
think ;  but  do  not  make  me  speak  of  it,  or  else, 
perhaps,  I  shall  cry,  and  you  would  not  wish 
that;"  and  she  turned  away  to  tie  on  her  bon- 


THE    HOSPITAL.  61 

net.  "Phoebe,  dear,"  she  said,  a  minute  or  two 
after,  "  I  don't  know  when  I  may  see  you  again, 
but  I  hope  some  time,  if  I  get  better ;  we  must 
not  forget  one  another." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shall  never  forget  you,"  cried 
Phoebe, -jumping  up  to  kiss  her.  At  this  mo- 
ment in  walked  Phoebe's  mother,  who,  as  so 
often  happens,  took  her  by  surprise  at  last,  after 
having  been  watched  for  all  the  morning.  It 
was  a  pleasure  to  witness  their  meeting — such 
happiness  at  seeing  one  another  again  !  such  joy 
at  Phoebe's  improved  looks!  "And  you  have 
been  kind  to  my  child,  I  know,"  said  the 
mother  to  Mary  at  the  first  pause.  This  led 
to  a  short  pleasant  conversation,  and  a  promise 
that  on  the  first  good  opportunity  which  of- 
fered, Phoebe  should  come  over  some  market- 
day  and  pay  Mary  a  visit  at  Ellen  Swain's. 
By  this  time  Mary  was  ready.  "  And  your 
father's  below,  child,  waiting  to  see  you,"  said 
the  mother,  "  so  we  can  all  go  down  together  ;" 


62  phcebe;    or, 

and  so  they  did,  Phoebe  insisting  on  carrying 
Mary's  basket  and  umbrella,  which  she  con- 
signed to  William  Johnson,  as  he  stood  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  ready  to  receive  hjs  charge, 
and  smiling  most  good-naturedly  on  Phoebe, 
because  she  seemed  so  fond  of  Mary.  Mary, 
accompanied  by  Ellen,  had  to  leave  them  for  a 
minute  or  two,  to  receive  the  doctor's  last  in- 
structions, and  to  offer  her  warm  thanks  to  him, 
and  every  one,  for  past  kindness;  and  when 
this  was  over,  and  she  had  given  Phoebe  a  kiss, 
she  was  ready  to  take  "William's  arm ;  and  turn- 
ing her  head  for  one  last  look  at  the  great  hall, 
and  bestowing  one  sweet  happy  smile  upon 
Phoebe,  who  stood  watching  her  departure,  the 
door  closed  behind  them.  "  0  mother !  I  do 
think  she  will  be  happy,"  cried  Phoebe ;  "  but 
I  am  afraid  she  will  have  a  bad  headache,  too," 
she  added,  as  she  watched  them  from  the 
window ;  "  for  look  how  fast  William  is  making 
her  walk,  while  he  is  talking  to  her,  and  does 


THE    HOSPITAL.  63 

not  think  about  it.  Ah,  there  she  is  telling 
him,  I  dare  say,  that  she  is  not  so  strong  as  he 
is — oh,  no,  she  is  waiting  for  Ellen  Swain  to 
come  up ;  and  now  they  are  going  slowly,  as 
they  should  do.  Mother,  do  you  like  William 
Johnson  ?" 

"I  never  saw  him  before,  child,"  answered 
her  mother.     "How  should  I  like  him?" 

"  Was  that  William  Johnson  ?"  said  her 
father ;   "  is  he  a  stone-mason  by  trade  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Phoebe. 

"Well,  then,  I  knew  him  when  they  were 
doing  the  repairs  of  our  church  ;  he  was  a 
good  lad  then,  and  took  good  care  of  his 
mother  when  she  was  left  with  nobody  else 
to  take  care  of  her ;  and  he  that  was  a  good 
son  will  be  a  good  husband,  I  make  no  doubt 
of  it,  and  that  is  better  than  trusting  to 
looks,  though  his  are  not  against  him." 

"  Mother,"  said  Phoebe,  "  when  we  go,  you 
and  father  must  come  with  me  to  say  good- 


64  phcebe;    or, 

by  to  Simon ;"  and  then  she  explained  who 
Simon  was,  and  where  he  had  lived,  and  his 
sad  misfortune.  Presently  all  preparations 
were  made,  and  Phoebe's  parents  had  ex- 
pressed their  gratitude  and  thanks  for  the 
benefit  their  child  had  received,  and  heard 
the  nurse's  good  report  of  Her  in  return,  as 
an  obedient,  tractable  child.  Having  quitted 
the  house,  they  all  turned  down  the  walk  in 
search  of  Simon,  whom  they  knew  to  be  out 
in  the  air.  He  looked  very  melancholy  as 
Phcebe  approached  him,  for  he  knew  she 
came  to  say  good-by,  so  that  she  felt  half 
ashamed  of  being  so  happy  when  he  was  so 
sad ;  but  he  was  not  sullen  now  as  formerly, 
and  was  ready  and  glad  to  answer  all  Mrs. 
Freeman's  kind  questions  about  himself.  To 
her  surprise  she  found  that  his  mother  had 
been  an  old  friend  of  hers,  who  had  once 
lived  in  service  with  her.  This  made  her 
feel  a  peculiar  interest  in  her  child,  though 


THE     HOSPITAL.  65 

at  any  time  she  would  have  felt  compassion 
for  a  poor  boy  under  such  circumstances ; 
and  she  lingered  talking,  and  asking  ques- 
tions, and  expressing  regrets,  till  her  husband 
warned  her  that  they  must  not  stay.  At  this 
moment,  however,  Mr.  Day  came  up  with  a 
gentleman,  whom  Simon  recognised  as  Mr. 
Wilson,  his  employer  in  the  mill  where  his 
accident  had  happened.  This  gentleman  had 
been  from  home  at  the  time ;  but  on  his  re- 
turn had  come,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  see  the 
poor  boy.  He  was  a  kind  man,  and  felt 
anxious,  as  he  ought,  to  do  what  he  could  for 
the  child,  whose  whole  prospects  had  been 
blighted  in  his  service.  The  chaplain,  Mr.  Day, 
had  given  him  some  general  account  of  Simon's 
state,  and  the  improvement  he  had  observed 
since  he  came  into  the  hospital,  adding,  how- 
ever, his -fear  that  from  what  he  knew  of  his 
home,  especially  his  step-mother,  who  proved 
a    most    unworthy    person,    this    amendment 

5 


would  have  little  chance  of  continuing,  under 
the  bad  example  he  would  see  there.  The 
boy's  father,  too,  had  been  with  Mr.  "Wilson 
arguing  the  same  things,  and  professing  his 
inability  to  do  any  thing  for  his  son  in  his 
present  helpless  state,  explaining  that  his  wife 
objected  to  the  charge  in  a  way  that  convinced 
Mr.  Wilson  that  his  home  would  certainly  be  an 

unhappy  one  if  he  was  made  to  return  thither. 
He  had  just  spoken  of  this  to  Mr.  Day,  when 
they  came  up  to  where  Simon  was,  and  found 
him  in  conversation  with  the  Freemans.  Mrs. 
Freeman  was  a  person  always  to  make  a 
favourable  impression  ;  and  just  now,  when 
her  heart  was  full  of  Simon's  trouble,  and  the 
thought  that  her  old  friend's  only  child  should 
be  thus  unfortunate,  she  appeared  to  Mr. 
Wilson  just  the  person  to  have  the  charge  of 
the  boy  a  little  while,  till  some  employment 
could  be  fixed  upon  for  him,  if  she  could  be 
prevailed  upon  to  undertake  it.     The  doctor, 


THE     HOSPITAL.  67 

too,  had  spoken  of-  country  air  as  a  great 
advantage  for  him  in  his  present  weak  state, 
and  this  confirmed  Mr.  Wilson  in  his  first 
thought.  He  therefore  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  William  Freeman,  and  learnt  where 
they  lived,  and  other  things ;  and  then  asked 
if  they  would  be  willing  to  take  charge  of 
Simon  for  a  few  weeks,  or  longer,  till  his  health 
should  be  sufficiently  restored  for  him  to  learn 
some  trade  suited  to  his  present  condition. 
William  Freeman  did  not  like  the  idea  at  first, 
and  his  wife  was  a  little  startled  by  the  thought 
of  an  additional  charge  ;  but  Simon,  who  heard 
the  proposal,  looked  at  her  with  such  imploring 
eyes,  and  Phoebe,  who  saw  what  was  in  his 
mind,  seconded  these  with  such  heartiness, 
promising  to  help  both  him  and  her  mother  as 
much  as  she  could,'  that  Mrs.  Freeman  agreed, 
only  requesting  Mr.  Wilson  to  ride  over  and 
see  their  house,  and  way  of  living,  before  every 
thing  was   settled.      "And   one  thing,   sir,   I 


68  phcebe;   or, 

must  make  a  point  of,"  said  William  Freeman, 
— "  if  the  bo j  comes  to  my  house,  while  he 
stays  I  must  have  as  much  control  over  him 
as  I  have  over  my  own  children,  and  I  should 
wish  him  to  understand  this. 

Simon,  who  knew  that  he  had  not  always 
been  a  boy  that  Freeman  would  like  to  have 
under  his  roof,  here  promised  very  humbly  that 
if  they  would  take  him,  he  would  be  obedient, 
and  do  all  he  could  to  be  as  little  trouble  as 
possible. 

"It  is  not  the  trouble  I  shall  mind,"  said 
Mrs.  Freeman;  "there  is  sure  to  be  some  of 
that  with  a  poor  child,  crippled  as  he  is.  One 
ought  not  to  grudge  that  for  a  motherless 
child;  but  I  can't  keep  him  unless  he  is  con- 
formable and  well-behaved,  which  as  this  good 
gentleman  (curtseying  to  the  chaplain)  speaks  a 
good  word  for  him,  I  hope  he  will  be." 

Simon  looked  brighter  and  happier  after  this 
decision  than  Phoebe  had  ever  seen  him,  "  Who 


PIKE  BE.  69 

would  have  thought,"  she  whispered  to  him, 
"  that  you  would  help  us  to  make  our  May-gar- 
lands, after  all  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  added,  "  and  I  believe  I  shall 
know  where  to  look  for  the  flowers,  though  it 
is  so  long  ago ;  and  I  shall  be  able  to  go  about 
thenj  for  I  can  use  my  crutches  a  great  deal 
better  than  I  did  that  first  day,  when  I  was  so 
cross,  and  had  nearly  sent  you  away  from  me. 
I  said  then  that  nobody  could  help  me,  and 
nobody  could  do  me  any  good ;  I  hope  I  shall 
never  have  such  bad  thoughts  again ;  for  how 
kind  every  body  has  been  to  me,  and  how  happy 
I  feel  at  this  minute,  in  spite  of  these  things," 
said  he,  smiling,  as  he  shook  his  crutches,  "that 
I  thought  I  should  never  bear  the  sight  of." 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

fjr&to, 

Published  and  for  Sale  by  the 

GENERAL  PROTESTANT  EPISCOPAL  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  UNION, 

Depository  No.  20  John  street,  New  York. 


The  Prize  ;   or,  The  Preciousness  of  a  Meek 
and  Quiet  Spirit. 

Maurice  Favell  ;    or,  The  Singing  Lessons. 

The  Primroses  ;    or,  The  Elder  Sisters. 

The  Friends.     A  Tale  for  the  Young. 


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